Status: Currently on Hiatus
The Breakdown of Natalie Whitman
Natalie Whitman
Heavy backpack, sweltering summer heat, yeah it made it all worthwhile. Already the first day and I had enough homework to last me the semester, I guess junior year was going to be a bummer. September was such a deceiving month, while warm we still had to be trapped in a building and we had to be molded into hard working members of society. Trudging to get home, I could feel the sweat dripping down my face. It was a hot 90 degree day with the sun blistering my skin. This must be the feeling an ant feels when it is getting cooked under the magnifying glass of some curious and mischievous boy. Finally, I reached the white picketed fence that every American dreams of but not much can achieve. If I had to do the things my parents did to achieve it, I think I would be happy with a cardboard box. However, I could never let them or anyone know that, after all I was the golden child.
When I was born, perfection was already stamped on my forehead and my fate was already predetermined: to be everything my sister was not. I was the child to replace the current child; most parents do it after their first child died. My sister was still alive, but she was not perfect, according to my mother. A perfect child would not be so strong headed and have a disability like my sister did. ADHD was when my mother finally decided to have an heir, an heir to her dynasty of excellence. So my mother became pregnant and she finally had her glory child. My father was too much of a wimp to do anything except follow and provided the sperm. It was my mother who basically raised me, putting me in piano classes, dance classes, singing lessons, gymnastics everything that a perfect child was required to learn. She also placed me in the most prestigious preschool. When you are a three year old, you think that this is love. What she gave me was not love, it was worship; a mother is suppose to love and care.
As I entered the AC cooled house, I dropped my bag of bricks at the door of my bedroom and slammed the door. A crucifix moved back and forth with the force of the slam. That was the other thing; my mother was highly religious which seemed ironic in spite of everything. A lawyer did not seem like the most holy job there was. Her justification was that it was her calling to but the sinners of the Lord and the unruly of society behind bars. If it were up to her, the death penalty in New Jersey would still exist which again is ironic. My mother was a very complicated woman and I felt as if I was walking in her shadows.
Taking out the heavy textbooks, I gently placed them on my desk and studied them a bit. I needed to annihilate the competition this year. The choosing of the valedictorian was next year and I was determined to maintain a perfect GPA throughout my entire high school career. So far, I had already succeeded but junior year just seemed to be a thorn at my side. Biology was going to be a pain as was AP History and AP English and the entire year. It was time for college planning and choosing a major, not to mention the teachers, especially Torres… Torres was a silly woman that was a fraud, she thought of herself so nice, sweet, charming, and beautiful but she wasn’t really. What she was a poser, a fake who lied behind those gorgeous teeth, nothing more. An empty shell with no true values and such a phony, I couldn’t believe I ever trusted her. The day I discovered the real Torres, I felt like an idiot because I fell for her act, her kindness act of letting anyone through her door. Her phoniness made me sick to my stomach, although, even though she was faking it, she was rather sweet. A perfect actress she was convincing me that she was there…when my mother wasn’t. However, she lied and revealed her true self. Damn it! Like a whirlwind, I ran downstairs and sat at the piano. Pissed, I began banging at it as it screamed for mercy with distorted sounds. The piano was meant to relax, but lately, it’s been my release toy. Damn it! I hate Ms. Torres because she’s a phony! Screeching throughout the empty house my words were returned because of the echo.
At around six, the lady of the house came. My mother with her pin neat clothes and perfect hair came in walking through the door. She had a briefcase in her hand and a frown on her face. Immediately, I played the piano the correct way, if she heard me banging on the $3000 piano like that, I would never hear the end of it. To my surprise, she past me and went right into the kitchen to fetch herself a glass of water. By the look of it, she lost her case.
“So which case did you lose?” Holding my breath, I knew that I shouldn’t have said anything because I knew the response was going to be violent or at the very least, not pleasant. I was shocked when she did not answer and just stayed leaning again the sink, staring out of the window. The house was once again in totally silence and then, a rustle from my mother’s fine silk blouse. Staring down, there was a slight gasp.
“I let someone get away, the jury decided that there wasn’t enough evidence to convict and he went on his merry way. He was charged on a rape charge and I couldn’t put him behind bars.” Sob trips was what I called them. My mother was great and was almost flawless on every case. However, there was once in a while that she learned the actual meaning of human: to be fallible. What was strange was that when I lost or scored low on a test, I too would go on a sob trip, even though I knew it was rather stupid. Something beyond me could not control those feelings, the something that was my mother.
Mother did not talk very long before she carried her suitcase up to her office, yet the other ironic thing about my mother. Most conservative women prefer working in the home, not my mother. She was determined to change the world by being a part of it. This was a characteristic I actually admired about her, her confidence and strength. It was something that I would try to parrot but never succeeded at, although it was what I wanted. I decided that it was be best if I just hid in my room. I had to plan my attack; I had to triumph over my mother.
It was over dinner that the family usually reconvened to talk about our day. My father came at around seven from his job as a college professor and the three of us now sat at the table with food on our plates. As our daily ritual, we were required to say grace by my mother’s order. With a few hushed words about thanking the Lord for the food in front of us, we began to eat. My mother was super woman, being able to work all day and still come home and cook something, but I bet she didn’t think much of it: just that it was a way of life.
“So pumpkin how was the first day of school?” Parents always manage to embarrass you and my father always did, but at least he made me feel like a normal daughter, not like a robot bent on perfection. Mixing my mashed potatoes, I responded that it was alright but that junior year was going to be hard, seeking sympathy from my mother. With a comment as cold as only a lawyer can make, my mother quipped that it didn’t matter, I still had to do 110%. My father, ever being the caring parent assured me that I was going to do fine because I was a young intelligent woman. Sometimes, I wish my mother would tell me that instead of the fact I was to be perfect.
When I was born, perfection was already stamped on my forehead and my fate was already predetermined: to be everything my sister was not. I was the child to replace the current child; most parents do it after their first child died. My sister was still alive, but she was not perfect, according to my mother. A perfect child would not be so strong headed and have a disability like my sister did. ADHD was when my mother finally decided to have an heir, an heir to her dynasty of excellence. So my mother became pregnant and she finally had her glory child. My father was too much of a wimp to do anything except follow and provided the sperm. It was my mother who basically raised me, putting me in piano classes, dance classes, singing lessons, gymnastics everything that a perfect child was required to learn. She also placed me in the most prestigious preschool. When you are a three year old, you think that this is love. What she gave me was not love, it was worship; a mother is suppose to love and care.
As I entered the AC cooled house, I dropped my bag of bricks at the door of my bedroom and slammed the door. A crucifix moved back and forth with the force of the slam. That was the other thing; my mother was highly religious which seemed ironic in spite of everything. A lawyer did not seem like the most holy job there was. Her justification was that it was her calling to but the sinners of the Lord and the unruly of society behind bars. If it were up to her, the death penalty in New Jersey would still exist which again is ironic. My mother was a very complicated woman and I felt as if I was walking in her shadows.
Taking out the heavy textbooks, I gently placed them on my desk and studied them a bit. I needed to annihilate the competition this year. The choosing of the valedictorian was next year and I was determined to maintain a perfect GPA throughout my entire high school career. So far, I had already succeeded but junior year just seemed to be a thorn at my side. Biology was going to be a pain as was AP History and AP English and the entire year. It was time for college planning and choosing a major, not to mention the teachers, especially Torres… Torres was a silly woman that was a fraud, she thought of herself so nice, sweet, charming, and beautiful but she wasn’t really. What she was a poser, a fake who lied behind those gorgeous teeth, nothing more. An empty shell with no true values and such a phony, I couldn’t believe I ever trusted her. The day I discovered the real Torres, I felt like an idiot because I fell for her act, her kindness act of letting anyone through her door. Her phoniness made me sick to my stomach, although, even though she was faking it, she was rather sweet. A perfect actress she was convincing me that she was there…when my mother wasn’t. However, she lied and revealed her true self. Damn it! Like a whirlwind, I ran downstairs and sat at the piano. Pissed, I began banging at it as it screamed for mercy with distorted sounds. The piano was meant to relax, but lately, it’s been my release toy. Damn it! I hate Ms. Torres because she’s a phony! Screeching throughout the empty house my words were returned because of the echo.
At around six, the lady of the house came. My mother with her pin neat clothes and perfect hair came in walking through the door. She had a briefcase in her hand and a frown on her face. Immediately, I played the piano the correct way, if she heard me banging on the $3000 piano like that, I would never hear the end of it. To my surprise, she past me and went right into the kitchen to fetch herself a glass of water. By the look of it, she lost her case.
“So which case did you lose?” Holding my breath, I knew that I shouldn’t have said anything because I knew the response was going to be violent or at the very least, not pleasant. I was shocked when she did not answer and just stayed leaning again the sink, staring out of the window. The house was once again in totally silence and then, a rustle from my mother’s fine silk blouse. Staring down, there was a slight gasp.
“I let someone get away, the jury decided that there wasn’t enough evidence to convict and he went on his merry way. He was charged on a rape charge and I couldn’t put him behind bars.” Sob trips was what I called them. My mother was great and was almost flawless on every case. However, there was once in a while that she learned the actual meaning of human: to be fallible. What was strange was that when I lost or scored low on a test, I too would go on a sob trip, even though I knew it was rather stupid. Something beyond me could not control those feelings, the something that was my mother.
Mother did not talk very long before she carried her suitcase up to her office, yet the other ironic thing about my mother. Most conservative women prefer working in the home, not my mother. She was determined to change the world by being a part of it. This was a characteristic I actually admired about her, her confidence and strength. It was something that I would try to parrot but never succeeded at, although it was what I wanted. I decided that it was be best if I just hid in my room. I had to plan my attack; I had to triumph over my mother.
It was over dinner that the family usually reconvened to talk about our day. My father came at around seven from his job as a college professor and the three of us now sat at the table with food on our plates. As our daily ritual, we were required to say grace by my mother’s order. With a few hushed words about thanking the Lord for the food in front of us, we began to eat. My mother was super woman, being able to work all day and still come home and cook something, but I bet she didn’t think much of it: just that it was a way of life.
“So pumpkin how was the first day of school?” Parents always manage to embarrass you and my father always did, but at least he made me feel like a normal daughter, not like a robot bent on perfection. Mixing my mashed potatoes, I responded that it was alright but that junior year was going to be hard, seeking sympathy from my mother. With a comment as cold as only a lawyer can make, my mother quipped that it didn’t matter, I still had to do 110%. My father, ever being the caring parent assured me that I was going to do fine because I was a young intelligent woman. Sometimes, I wish my mother would tell me that instead of the fact I was to be perfect.
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